


Things That Start With M

by tazia101



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: And later the rating will go up, Gen, M/M, although it's still pretty damn gay, and they still argue that's platonic, but not if you stop reading at the gen section, but so's the show, i'll tell you when, so yeah there's a gen cut-off, there's violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-06 02:53:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4205223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tazia101/pseuds/tazia101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is lost in the monotony of mundane life, visiting Sherlock's grave every week.<br/>Imagine his surprise when he meets someone there... A dark-haired genius who's supposed to be dead.<br/>Oh no, it's not who you're thinking.<br/>Don't be OBVIOUS, nothing is as it seems, and madness is like gravity... Like falling down a rabbit hole. </p><p>Post-Reichenbach AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mourning

**Chapter 1: Mourning**

 

"So she sat on with closed eyes, and half believed herself in Wonderland, though she knew she had but to open them again, and all would change to dull reality."  
-Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland.

 

_Sherlock,_

_My therapist decided at tonight's session that I should write you a letter. You know, get all my emotions out on paper. There are things I never told you, and we all know it. I suppose she thinks I'll write them, since I refuse to say them out loud. She's wrong. You'll never read this letter, so what's the point? So; I have a list here beside me of things I'm supposed to talk about. Let's get this over with._

_I miss you; that's obvious. The funny thing is that the things I 'hated' are the things I miss the most now. I continually wish I had a person with me that was actually willing to tell others how stupid they're being. Or your clutter, everywhere, having to move piles of books, papers, and jars, just to sit down. I moved out of 221B, and the new flat is so empty, neat, orderly, blank. There's barely anything in the fridge, and I still expect to find severed heads or body parts in there sometimes. It's almost disappointing when there's nothing._

_I'm supposed to talk about my routine. That pretty much says it all; routine. I'm trapped in the endless repetition that I joined the army to avoid. Everything in my week is something I did the week before, and something I'll do next week, and so it goes, on and on and on. Predicable, blank, dull._

_I wake up at 7:30 every morning. Always to the sound of my alarm. Never gunshots downstairs. Never someone running in shouting that they've set the kitchen on fire, and can't find the extinguisher. Just the alarm, and the empty flat. Predictable. Blank. Dull. I get dressed, and go to work at the clinic. The same, uninteresting problems. I wish I could be working in surgery again, but the tremor in my hand is back, and I doubt anyone would believe me if I told them it goes away when I'm under pressure. Every day, at 12:30, someone puts a peanut-butter and jam sandwich on my desk. I don't like peanut butter, but I eat it anyways. I save the crusts for last, and remember that you wouldn't eat crust; always left it behind on your plate. Worthless. Discarded._

_My limp has returned. It was gradual, but it happened. I had to get a new cane, since I threw my old one in the river. I didn't think I'd ever need it again. According to my therapist, the emotional trauma had reminded me of my past physical trauma. Since feeling physical pain is easier than grieving, my mind provides me with a distraction. Then again, as your brother pointed out, she's never been very good at diagnosing me._

_I work full shifts at the clinic now. Nobody texts me to interrupt my work. I wish they would; no one does. I catch the same train home every day. If it's a Thursday, like today, I go see my therapist. On Saturdays I visit your grave. I'm the only one that visits it. Maybe Molly. I don't know. Mycroft wouldn't bother, Mrs. Hudson's hip has gotten worse, and no one else knows where it is. I go to sleep at 10, and wake up at 1am with the nightmare. You'd know the one. After all, it's the only place I get to see you anymore. I almost look forward to seeing you approach the edge. Because for those few minutes, as you stand there, your eyes on me, your silhouette all dramatic, you're_ _**alive.** _ _Even as you mock me, about not getting there quicker, or you repeat those horrible untruths about you being a fraud, or you tell me that I never meant anything, you're still alive._

_And then, or course, you're falling, and I'm screaming, and I see the blood on the concrete, and then I wake up, and it's exactly 1am. And I resent that you've become just another piece of my routine._

_I know what will happen, every minute of every day. And I_ _**hate** _ _it. I miss the late-night chases, the unexpected drug busts, someone telling me that I'm being an idiot, ordering me out at ridiculous hours to get something they need for an experiment. My therapist says that the point of grieving is to let that person go, to let them move on. But I don't want you to move on, or rest in peace, and I don't think you want to either. You don't belong there, wherever you are. You belong in the chair across from me, working on a case, or running across London like a maniac. I'm a selfish bastard, but I don't care. I want you_ _**here,** _ _Sherlock. Or perhaps I want to join you, wherever you are._

_It's not fair. None of it is. Sometimes I hate you for jumping. But mostly, I miss you. I need you. Come back; there are cases that need to be solved. Lestrade needs you to regain his reputation. Mrs. Hudson needs the money for our flat, to pay for her hip surgery. And I need you, so that I can remember how to smile. So that I can walk properly again. So that I can write a letter without my hand shaking. So that I can feel alive again. Come back, Sherlock. Please?_

_-John H. Watson._


	2. Memories

**Chapter 2: Memories**

_"And here poor Alice began to cry again, for she felt very lonely and low-spirited. In a little while, however, she again heard a little pattering of footsteps in the distance, and she looked up eagerly, half hoping that the Mouse had changed his mind, and was coming back to finish his story."  
-Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland._

 

John reread what he had written, stretching out his writing cramp, and grimaced. He sounded pathetic. Then again, he felt the same, so maybe that was simply what he was. He'd thrown the list of questions into the garbage about half-way through, the words no longer difficult, simply spilling onto the page. After a moment of hesitation, he took the letter and folded it in thirds, slipping it into the waiting envelope beside him. He sealed it, and took up the black ball-point pen again. He wondered idly if anyone had ever been killed with a pen. Probably. He shook aside the thoughts, and put the pen to the envelope.

_Sherlock._

Then he stared at the sealed letter, suddenly at a loss for what to do. Throwing it into the garbage seemed somewhat anti-climactic. Even the thought of burning it made him wince. Should he bury it in the garden, where no one would ever find it? John sighed, frustrated. He hadn't written this letter so that no one could read it. He'd written it for Sherlock. Who was never going to be able to read it. Because he was dead.

Dead; John hated that word. As an army doctor, he was used to saying it, but every time he did, it was heavy with shame. Another person he hadn't been able to save. Another family to inform. Another person gone, because he hadn't been fast enough. He hated to put Sherlock into that group. Sherlock defied all groups, all labels, any categories John could try to fit him in. There were no words for Sherlock Holmes, and why should 'dead' be sufficient to describe him now? It was senseless. All of this was senseless.

He rose, grabbing his cane, and hobbled across to the door. He spent five minutes on the street before he got a cab. He gave the address, and leaned back, trying his best not to think about his first case with Sherlock, the one where he'd killed the cab driver. He tried to feel a vague sense of regret for that, but couldn't manage it. The cabby hadn't really been attacking Sherlock; he hadn't been an immediate danger. A shot into the wall would have taken Sherlock's attention away from the pill for as long as it would take John to run between the buildings. But no; he had been angry, and he'd killed the cab driver instead. John waited, searching inside himself for sorrow, or regret, or _anything_ related to the cab drivers death.

Disturbed by the nothingness he found, John stared out the window at the shops going by, letting his mind empty, until all there was was the world outside, and nothing to distract him inside himself. Then the black fence of the graveyard slid across his vision, and he refocused reluctantly.

"We're here," the cabby said unnecessarily. John paid him, thanked him, and set off into the graveyard. His feet carried him easily along the familiar path he'd been walking so often in the last two months. Every Saturday—Just another piece of his stifling routine. John looked down at the letter in his right hand, and tried to smile. It was Thursday; Even in death, Sherlock managed to shake him out of his schedule.

He came around a turn, eyes fixing on the black grave he'd come to visit. Then he paused. There was someone already there; but who could it be? As he'd mentioned in his letter, he was the only one that visited Sherlock's grave. He came a little closer, eyes fixed on the figure. Not the man he was always hoping to find, but still, familiar, somehow. The man was kneeling before the grave, fingers tracing the letters of Sherlock's name. And then the wind carried his voice towards John, and he froze. He knew that voice. He'd know it anywhere. But it wasn't possible!

"…that I could live without you, but I'm bored. I thought it was the right time to end our game, but now I'm stuck with nothing to do, and I _hate you_! I thought that… maybe… No. You were only ever human. Weakened by _caring._ Everyone dies… Everyone dies." The last words were quiet, repeated like the mantras John's therapist had given him for meditation. As the man rose, John watched him, unable to move.

He'd seen this man lying on a gurney beside Sherlock, both men in a pool of their own blood. He'd seen this man's brains spread over the roof, proof that Sherlock had at least died with his last case complete. And now… He was standing by the late genius's grave, dusting dirt off his knees. His eyes drifted up, and locked with John's. A smile spread across the dark-haired man's face.

"Oh, Doctor Watson. Fancy seeing you here." John continued to stare. He'd seen this man's body put in a black bag and taken to the morgue. He'd taken this man's pulse and felt nothing. How…

As if he could read John's thoughts, Moriarty gave a little laugh. "Oh, poor Johnny boy, don't you know that nothing it ever as it seems? Did you _really_ think that I'd be anything less than the last man standing?" He paused, casting a look to the tomb he'd knelt before. "It's a shame, you know. I thought he might be the immovable object to my unstoppable force, but he fell anyways."

John's hand slid into the waistband of his jeans, and met cold metal. He curled his fingers around the gun handle, and pulled it up, fixing his aim on Moriarty's forehead. There was no way to miss this shot; it was too perfect. The man, infuriatingly, smiled.

"Still so loyal. You make _such_ a good pet, John. Sherlock really didn't appreciate you as much as he should have. Did you tell him how brilliant he was? How amazing, how intelligent? How does it feel, to know I was smarter?" The click of a hammer being pulled back was John's only reply. Moriarty turned his back on him, walking towards the road, where a silver car was waiting. John ran after him, unwilling to shoot. This man was too valuable to kill; he was the proof that Sherlock wasn't a fraud. But he wanted to pull the trigger so _badly_ that it scared him. He caught the man by the shoulder, spun him around. John rested the gun against his forehead.

"Can you fake your way out of this?" he asked. "If I shoot you in the head now, would you come back?" Moriarty was still smiling, but he looked surprised as well. Pleasantly so.

"Doctor Watson, I thought you had a psychosomatic limp." John turned slightly, realizing that he'd left his cane behind when he'd run towards Moriarty. The soft click, and the feeling of cold metal against his temple, told him that the tables had turned. He looked back to Moriarty, who was holding a gun in both hands, fixing it on John's head. "How fascinating, Johnny. There may be some sort of game in you yet. Now drop the gun." Seeing that John had no intention of doing so, Moriarty struck it out of his hand, unexpectedly fast. "Thank you. Now get in the car."

"No," John said calmly. "Go ahead and shoot me."

"Would I really be that dull? You don't know me at all, do you?" John held his gaze, refusing to look away. After a moment, Moriarty sighed impatiently. "Fine. Let's be physical about this. Close your eyes." John kept his eyes very open as Moriarty whipped the butt of his pistol around, slamming it into John's temple. The world went dark, and he heard Moriarty singing out "Nighty-night!" And then there was nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I am Tazia, your author for this fic. 
> 
> This is actually one that I wrote about a year ago, and I'm only now posting it on Archive of Our Own. Some parts of it are making me cringe, but I'm too lazy to totally edit it in tone and voice and character and all that, so I'm just touching up the little things. 
> 
> Speaking of editing, I don't have a beta. So if I screw up my grammar or I totally misuse a word because it means something different in Britain (I am Canadian and often confused about that), please let me know!
> 
> Yeah! I think that's it! I love my comments, comments are my favourite. People who comment are my favourite.   
> Comment.  
> See you next time!


	3. Memento

**Chapter 3: Memento.**

_"Then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance._

_Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance?_

_Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join our dance?"_

_-Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland._

 

The rise to awareness was sudden. One moment, John was floating in the darkness, and then he was propelled upwards into the light, suddenly gasping for air. The brightness hurt his head, and he doubled over, holding his head in his hands. He focused on his breathing, trying to regain some sort of control. In and out. In and out. The pain faded into the background, and with his eyes closed, he quickly judged his situation.

He had been knocked out by Moriarty. But the blow from the pistol should have knocked him out for a minute or so, maximum. The change in setting; he was on a couch; meant that he must have been drugged shortly after. With some trepidation, John opened his eyes. The light didn't hurt as much this time, and he waited for his eyes to adjust.

He half-expected to be manacled to a wall, or tied down in some way. He had imagined waking in a bare room, with bars and a security camera watching him. So when he looked around, he was completely surprised to find himself back at his flat. He was on the couch in the living room, with a pillow under his head. Someone had taken off his shoes, but as he looked around, he saw them in their usual spot by the door. His gun was gone, but his wallet was in his pocket, untouched, everything still there. His cane was lying beside the couch on the floor, within easy reach.

The utter normality of the scene hit John suddenly, and he started to laugh uncontrollably. He'd confronted a dead man yesterday, and today he woke up in his living room with a pillow under his head. The contrast was sickening in its irony. He shook his head once, and calmed down, the laughter draining away. When he was calm, he took a deep breath and stood up.

Instantly, his head started hurting again, and he groaned. He didn't know what Moriarty had used to knock him out, but it had left him feeling like he had a hangover. His leg hurt, too. Apparently the lack of a limp in the graveyard yesterday had only been a brief reprieve. John leaned down and picked up his cane, carefully keeping most of his weight on his steady leg. There was a card tied to the handle of his cane with a blue ribbon. Cautiously, he flipped it over. It was a short note, made out of cut-out letters from a magazine glued onto white craft paper.

The Venworth Café

July 19th

6PM

-JM

John stared at the paper for a moment. There was no way he was going. He didn't want to die; not at Moriarty's hand. And he had no intention of being pulled into one of his games. But at the same time, could he really just let this go? He could give the note to the police… No. He was forgetting that no one else believed in Jim Moriarty anymore. _Poor_ Richard Brook, framed and then driven to committing suicide. If he gave the note to the police, they'd just think he was crazy. But Johncould go alone. Moriarty wouldn't be missed; he was already supposed to be dead. His hand went to the place where his Browning was usually kept, and he remembered that Moriarty had his weapon.

Well, that settled it. He definitely wasn't going weaponless. He'd ignore the note. He tore it off his cane and threw it into the garbage, then looked up at the clock, and swore. It was noon; he was supposed to have been at the clinic three and a half hours ago. Wasn't it so ironic, that the day he wrote a letter complaining about his routine, it would be disrupted in the worst way he could think of? The letter!

He put a hand into his pocket, where the letter had been. Gone. Why had he not thought of it earlier? He quickly ran through what he had written, trying to decide if there was anything there that Moriarty would be able to use against him. He'd know John's routine, but he could learn that by trailing him for a few days. It still rankled, to know that he'd written all of that for Sherlock, only to have it fall into the hands of his killer.

Yes, John had no doubts that if Moriarty was alive, he must have killed Sherlock. John didn't know how, but he _knew_ Sherlock, and he'd never commit suicide. No matter what happened, Sherlock knew there was more work, more criminals, and he'd never allow himself to die until they were all gone. Well; all the _interesting_ criminals.

He pushed the entire incident out of his mind. Without his gun, there was nothing he could do, not without getting pulled into an elaborate game that John doubted he'd win. Instead, he called in sick to work, apologizing between fake coughs. Once he hung up the phone, the silence of the flat hit him all over again, and he realized that he didn't know what to do with his day.

It was Friday today, July the 19th. Aside from a dinner date that he wasn't attending, he had nothing to do, and as he looked around the tiny apartment, he felt the foreign feeling of boredom creeping up on him. Somehow he had avoided it, even as he plodded through the monotony of his predictable life. He'd been feeling so dead that it hadn't occurred to him to _be_ bored. Life was dull, it was all meaningless, so why should John feel boredom, an emotion that was an urge to do something else?

But as he sat on the couch, trying to focus on the television, the unfamiliar itch was in his bones, pushing him to go out, to find someone to chat with, find _anything_ to occupy his time. John ran through a list in his head. Getting drunk. No; it didn't help anything, and it usually just made bad memories worse for him. Meeting up with Harry. No. A thousand times, no. Mrs. Hudson? No; that would mean going back to Baker street. There was Greg Lestrade, who had been an unexpected friend, but John didn't appreciate his matchmaking attempts on his behalf. And… that was it. That was all he could think of.

He had turned the telly off at some point, and was staring at the dark screen. He could see his reflection in it, and behind him, the reflection of the table, and the innocent looking paper on it. _6:00. JM. Venworth Café._

John couldn't stay here. The small rooms seemed to be mocking him, with their white walls and impersonal furniture, without clutter, without personality. Mocking him with what his life had become. John had never been _depressed._ Blank, yes. But never actively _un_ happy. Today was a day of terrible firsts.

John limped into the bedroom, letting his body go to auto pilot. He pulled on new clothes. Jeans, a lighter long-sleeved shirt. In the middle of July, most people were out in T-shirts. Not John. Too many scars on his arms, memories that weren't for other people to gawk at. But he did forgo the jumpers in the summer. That was crossing a line into heat stroke, and John wasn't an idiot. Well. Depending on who you ask, he wasn't. Sherlock would…He cut off the thought, and pulled on a pair of shoes, wincing. That was the last straw; he was going out.

He hobbled to the door and shut it behind him, slipping the key into his pocket. He was on the second floor of the building, and the stairway was quiet as he made his slow way to the ground floor. Again, he had accepted the return of his limp as a natural consequence of Sherlock's death. But since it had gone away for a moment, he was now back to cursing its inconvenience, thinking back to the original injury, feeling unhappy and undeservedly punished. Then, of course, his mind was happy to provide him with all the people he'd killed, actively, passively, or through ineptitude.

John felt like he was sighing too much, so he suppressed the exhale that he wanted to let out, hoping that it would take all these memories away with it. Instead, he came out onto the street, and stood in the light drizzle. It wasn't enough to need an umbrella. Just enough to slowly weigh down his hair, wet his shirt drop by drop until it clung to his arms uncomfortably. John started walking, maneuvering through groups of people on the sidewalk. He didn't know where he was going, but the direction was unimportant. As he walked, he attempted to focus on the things around him, hoping to forget the turmoil inside him.

The traffic was heavy, and John spent a while seeing how many license plates he could memorize before his brain got too cluttered to remember the original plates. He managed to get above average, but not enough when he thought of Sherlock. Being trapped with geniuses made you think differently about your intellectual level. It was never enough…

John quickly switched his focus to the people around him, trying not to think about Sherlock, and trying to deduce the passer-by as they swept around him. The two activities were impossible to untangle, and every deduction that John managed to make was in Sherlock's voice at the back of his head. And then, inevitably, it was criticizing.

"You look, but you don't _see._ Use my methods… Idiots, all of you. Pretend you're smart. You miss everything of importance. Try again, John." It wasn't enough that he could tell the married people from unmarried, even without their rings. It wasn't enough that he could tell who had been away, and who had children. No, because he should be able to tell the _state_ of their marriage from their shirt cuffs, and how _long_ they'd been in _which_ country, just look at their _glasses,_ John, don't be dim, how can you miss it?

John turned and pushed his way into the first store on his left. It was an antique shop, full of old furniture and cluttered collectibles. The owner, an elderly woman, looked up and smiled.

"Hello, dear," she called. John nodded at her, trying not to let her remind him of Mrs. Hudson. He turned to the shelves, and had a strange sense of déjà vu. There were glass bottles, old 45s, and odd, twisted, metal implements that John couldn't discern the purpose of. As every low-budget college student, John was no stranger to second-hand shops. But this seemed stronger than a throw-back to his college days. As he looked around, trying to pinpoint the feeling, he saw it. The gaping eye sockets, stretching grin, the distinguishing stain on the left side. It was the skull from 221B.

John walked over and picked it up, remembering how Sherlock had taped cigarettes to the back of the skull so that they couldn't be found, even if John or Mrs. Hudson picked it up to check underneath. John flipped it over. There were no cigarettes now. He brought it up to eye level, and realized that this must be the shop where he'd dropped two boxes of Sherlock's things, two months ago. He'd kept nothing, wanting a new start. John went to the front, and bought the skull.

"Is that clock accurate?" he asked the woman at the front, gesturing to a grandfather clock behind her that was ticking away loudly.

"Oh, yes. I check it every day. The radio announces noon, you know, so I always turn it on to make sure. I never listen to the radio otherwise, it's bad to have radio waves coming in, you know, there were studies…" It was, apparently, just after six. John had never eaten lunch, and he was suddenly aware of his stomach's emptiness.

"Is there a good place to eat around here?" he asked, once the woman paused for breath.

"Try the café next door… I know the owner, he's such a nice man. He dog-sits for me sometimes, you know. Anyhow, good food too. Sometimes, when I give him pottery, I get a free lunch. Their chicken salad is exquisite. And the owner is _such_ a nice man…" John thanked the woman quickly, and left as soon as he could, sensing another speech coming on.

He glanced into the open-window shop next door, and decided it looked good enough. Then he looked up at the name, and froze. _The Venworth Café._ He suppressed the urge to swear, and turned quickly. He'd find somewhere else to eat. He hadn't taken more than a step away, before he heard the voice, rising over the noise of the crowd.

"Johnny boy, over here!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *le gasp*
> 
>  
> 
> Since it's already written, I'm just posting it in groups of two... so on to the next chapter!


	4. Meetings

**Chapter 4: Meetings.**

_"'The time has come,' the Walrus said,_

_'To talk of many things:_

_Of shoes—and ships—and sealing wax—_

_Of cabbages—and kings—_

_And why the sea is boiling hot—_

_And whether pigs have wings.'"_

_-Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking Glass._

 

John froze, then closed his eyes for a moment. The temptation was to walk away, but he wouldn't get very far before Moriarty caught up to him. He turned and walked reluctantly towards the voice, leaning heavily on his cane. Moriarty was grinning at him, hand falling back onto the table from waving.

"Good to see you again," he said. He delivered the line in a normal tone, suddenly sounding like any other man on the street. It was terrifying. "I see your leg is acting up again. That's too bad." His acting was superb. He actually sounded like a concerned friend. John reached the table and stood there, looking at the man that had killed his best friend, and almost killed him as well. "Well? Aren't you going to sit down? Don't be _rude._ " The tone was more familiar now, playful and laced with danger. John sat.

"What do you want, Moriarty?"

"I'm off duty. You can call me Jim," said Moriarty with an easy smile. Suddenly he was leaning forward slightly, eyes fixed on John, the familiar insane light in the back of his eyes. The smile was gone, and his voice was low and threatening. "In fact, you _will_ call me Jim." John simply stared at the man, memories rushing back. The volatile emotions were something so uniquely Moriarty, John had never seen anything like it. One moment he was a relaxed, happy picture of normalcy, startlingly at home in the role. The next second, he was pure, intense danger, his eyes on fire with warning, body tense with the possibility of movement.

"You didn't answer my question," John said finally, and Moriarty relaxed back in his chair with a small laugh.

"What do I want?" he repeated thoughtfully. He twisted his mouth up, and then shrugged. "I want to eat. That's it for now. I'm very hungry… You kept me waiting. But I'll forgive you this time, as I can see what kept you." He gestured at the skull hanging from John's hand. "That was Sherlock's, yes? Sentiment?"

"Sherlock used to sat that in exactly the same tone," John remarked, his social filters apparently destroyed by confusion and surprise. It got a laugh from Moriarty…Jim. John couldn't tell whether it was a real laugh or not.

"Well, I'm starving. Let's order. I suggest the chicken salad," Jim said, completely changing the subject. He signaled a waitress, and she hurried over.

"Hi, what can I-"

"I'll have a grilled cheese, with non-dyed cheddar, and thinly sliced bread. With ketchup on the side, and no useless, disgusting toppings like parsley. Johnny boy here will have a dark coffee, two milks, no sugar, and a chicken salad. Without cilantro." The waitress paused, surprised at being cut off, and obviously overwhelmed by the specifics of the order.

"Could you repeat that?" she asked tentatively. Jim opened his mouth with a familiarly impatient look on his face, and John knew that whatever he was about to say would likely reduce the woman to tears.

"Yes, certainly," John cut him off with a pointed look. "Sorry about that." He repeated the order, carefully including each of the modifications. The poor girl scribbled it all down on her notepad, and moved off to the kitchen to put in their order. John turned back to see Jim watching him closely. "What?"

"I'm caught between being impressed and angry. I can see why Sherlock kept you around; having someone else deal with the idiots is certainly refreshing. On the other hand, I don't usually allow people to cut me off like that."

"Yes, well, how about you go with impressed, and I won't ask how you know my coffee order… Or how you knew I didn't like cilantro."

"Deal," Jim said. "So, what are you doing with yourself, now that your purpose in life is dead?" John's eyes narrowed at him, and he felt hatred rush into his veins. It was good, to feel something that strong again. He was spared an immediate response when the waitress arrived with John's coffee. He took a sip and gave her a smile, which was returned with an added blush. She was obviously appreciated his rescue from Moriarty's rude order. "I wouldn't encourage her," Jim commented as she left. "She'd be a disastrous girlfriend."

John leveled a glare at him. "Oh? And why's that?" Jim lit up, shooting one other glance over at the woman, and then focusing on John with exited intensity. A smile threatened John's face. He could remember Sherlock doing the same thing when he was bored, deducing the waiters for something to do.

"She's a drug addict, and she's willing to do whatever she needs to do to get money for her drug of choice, which is currently cocaine, but she's likely to be moving onto methamphetamines soon. She works here during the day, but when she gets off work, she slips on a cat outfit and goes streetwalking. She's been involved in several robberies, maybe a few murders, but she's never actually killed anyone. If she did end up coming home with you, she'd disappear during the night with whatever valuables she could get her hands on."

John shot a look over at the woman in question. The deduction hadn't been like Sherlock's. It was lacking the showy reveal of _how_ he knew. As it was, he was left scanning the waitress, wanting desperately to ask Moriarty what he'd seen that John didn't, and yet unwilling to admit his ignorance. He kept silent, until he realized from the satisfied look on his face, that the reaction was exactly what Jim wanted.

"How did you know all that?" John asked, throwing his dignity out the window.

"Oh yes, I forgot. Sherlock gave his secrets to you like dog treats, right? Spoiled you with them, giving them away so carelessly. No, no. You have to do something _good_ to get one of my secrets."

"I bet you made half of that up," John said half-heartedly, anger flaring and then drowning in curiosity. "Or you have a file on her somewhere." That was more likely.

"Well, of course I have a file on her, but there are ways to see everything I just told you. Some things that even Sherlock Holmes wouldn't have seen." John was trying to focus on his coffee and forget his curiosity, but it wasn't working. From the smirk Jim was wearing, he could see it. "You really want to know," he commented. "Why?" It seemed like a simple question, but John found that he couldn't answer it.

He wanted to see things the way others saw them. He didn't want to be average. Nobody did, but not many people were exposed to the true possibilities of genius. But John knew that he could never catch up to Sherlock, so why did he try? Why go through memory exercises and read 'The Science of Deduction' over and over? Because nobody else believed in Sherlock's abilities anymore, and John Watson, perfectly average ex-soldier, was going to prove them wrong? He looked up and met Moriarty's eyes.

"Because I want to learn to see what I look at. Because, no matter how useless it is, I try to look at the world from other people's perspectives." Jim's eyes were locked on John's. It made him feel a strange mixture of nerves and exhilaration. Sherlock only ever gave him that sort of attention when he was explaining one of his deductions. He'd never had someone that focused on what _he_ was saying.

"Dangerous thing, to see the world from my perspective," Moriarty commented. John thought back to his explanation, and realized that yes, he'd actually just made the suggestion that he'd like to see the world from the criminal mastermind's perspective. While he tried to find a response, his mouth took the initiative.

"Worse than invading Afghanistan, or getting kidnapped and forced into a bomb vest?" The familiar, sardonic smile spread across Jim's face.

"Oh, you have _no_ idea, Johnny boy," he murmured. The waitress came with their food, and gave John another pretty smile. This time he only nodded back, and he saw Jim's smile grow even wider out of the corner of his eye. It looked too wide to be comfortable, vaguely reminding John of the Cheshire Cat. It was so difficult, sitting here, and making conversation, to remember that the man across from him had been responsible for Sherlock's death. And countless others.

He took a bite of the chicken salad that had been placed in front of him, and was pleasantly surprised by the taste. He smiled slightly. Moriarty's eyes fixed on his face, obviously cataloging the new expression. John immediately stopped smiling, and glared back. Jim made an exaggeratedly sad face at him, and took a bite of his grilled cheese. The cheese stretched, still pliable with warmth. Jim made an annoyed sound with his mouth full, and used his tongue to twirl and break the strands of cheese.

John looked down at his chicken salad. It was so _strange,_ to even consider the fact that Moriarty, the criminal mastermind, liked grilled cheese. It made him wonder other things. What was his favorite color? What did he do in his spare time, aside from kill people and blow up buildings? Did he like reading Orwell, or Austen, or Rowling? Or did he stick to books like 'How to make bombs' and 'Torture for Experts'?

"What's your favorite color?" John asked, and took another bite of salad to hide his embarrassment at the unintended question. Jim, in the middle of chewing another mouthful of grilled cheese sandwich, looked up and met John's eyes

"What did I say about secrets?" He said with his mouth full. "What's _your_ favorite color?"

"That's not fair," John objected. "You can't make me do all the answering."

"But you don't have the same reward-only policy, and so you really have no excuse to not answer the question." John just shrugged and continued eating. Jim's eyes narrowed, and he tapped his fingers on the table. "Fine," he said after a long pause. "An answer for an answer?"

"Red," John said in way of a response.

"Interesting. I bet you don't say that when your therapist asks, though. You say something like 'I don't have a favorite colour,' right?" John's silence was enough of an answer. The Cheshire smile was back. "Well, today, my favorite colour is blue, but yesterday it was red." At first, John simply accepted the answer as slightly insane. Then he realized what Moriarty was really telling him.

Blue was the most common favorite colour. Standard. Calming, and peaceful. It was describing what Jim had to be today, at least, by his own standards. Red, in contrast, was the colour of action. Daring, anger, blood and fire. Not the best colour for an ex-soldier to admit a preference for. Therefore, his common insistence that he didn't have a favorite colour.

"The last man I killed was named Gordon," Moriarty said. John looked up, confused for a moment. Then he realized it was a question. For a moment, he thought about simply nodding. After all, it _had_ been phrased as a statement. But he knew that Moriarty wouldn't let that go. So he answered honestly, figuring that Moriarty probably knew already.

"Sean."

"Ah, I thought so. That was a mess. Good shot, though. I had a bet on whether you would kill more of my men after Jeff. That means you aren't the person working through my snipers, though. More work to do, I suppose." He shrugged, a movement that used his entire body, and then took another bite of grilled cheese. "Speaking of work," he said around the mouthful, "I have to go in a couple minutes. I'll allow you one more question. Go crazy." The last word was sung, low and maniacal.

"Why did you ask me to come here tonight? You don't strike me as the type of person that would have dinners for the conversation."

"Having lived with Sherlock, I'm sure you can figure that answer out." It was an invitation, and John hesitated before speaking.

"You're supposed to be dead, so you can't resume your work immediately. You're bored. You needed an experiment, and you decided to use me." His voice rose at the end, making it a question. Moriarty, mouth full, applauded sarcastically. Once he'd swallowed, he spoke.

"Almost there. I needed a _puzzle,_ John Watson. Not an experiment; don't sell yourself short. And now I'll ask the last question, and it's the reason you're such a good puzzle. Why did you come here tonight, to meet with the man you hate more than anyone else?"

John hesitated, tempted to mention that it was coincidence that had brought him here. But was it, really? He'd been to the next-door shop to drop off Sherlock's things; he would have noticed the café next door. Was it really coincidence that his feet had brought him here, or had some part of him wanted to come? Jim was watching him again with that intense focus that John doubted he'd ever get used to.

"I don't know," he answered finally. Jim nodded, as though something had been confirmed.

"Well, you think about it. Once you have your answer, I'll trade you a secret for it. Something you've been wondering for a while." His smile was a little too wide, and John felt his shoulders tense. The action made him realize how relaxed his posture had been for most of the discussion. "Until then, Doctor Watson," he said, and stood up. He pressed a piece of plastic into John's hand. "8347," he said, and walked out the door.

For a moment, John was confused. But when he looked down at the thing Jim had given him and saw a debit card, he understood. When the waitress came with the bill, he used the debit card and the PIN number 8347. It pinged and went through. John walked out, and tried not to think about where the money had come from. Probably the government budget or something equally ridiculous. John tossed it into an alley, not wanting to get blamed if it was illegal (which it probably was).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. 
> 
> So that's all for this week. 
> 
> Hope you're all enjoying it so far... *pauses and cocks head to one side*
> 
> *crickets*
> 
> Anyways, I'll post again whenever I remember that I'm doing this! Thanks!!! Hope you're all having an awesome summer vacation! (I'm so unbelievably bored aaaaaahhhh)


	5. Maelstrom

**Chapter 5: Maelstrom**

 

_"Alice said nothing; she had sat down again with her face in her hands, wondering if anything would ever happen in the natural way again."_

_–Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland._

 

The moment John got back to the apartment, he collapsed onto the couch, and stared up at the ceiling. _Why did you come here tonight, to meet with the man you hate more than anyone else?_ It was a good question, a very good question. It was easy to claim that he hadn't meant to go, that it was coincidence that had led John's feet to the very café he'd been trying to forget. But it wasn't really possible, was it?

He thought about what his councilor would say. She'd probably claim that it was a psychological need to face and overcome his worst fear. But, as both Holmes brothers had believed, she was terrible at diagnosing him. Mycroft would probably say it was his need for danger that had brought him there. And perhaps there was an element of truth there. _You're not haunted by the war... You miss it._ Moriarty was war incarnate, changing, unpredictable, vicious, and undeniably dangerous. Was it possible that without Sherlock's chaos, he was just searching for another source of adrenaline?

No, he couldn't believe that about himself. He wasn't just another ex-soldier, addicted to adrenaline. People were more complicated than that. And where did that leave him? Confused. Lost. What was wrong with him? Because something was definitely wrong with him. Why else would he have sat down and had a civil diner with the man who'd killed his best friend? His 'purpose in life,' Moriarty had called him. John looked down at the skull he still held in his left hand, and remembered that Sherlock used to talk to it, before he had John.

He lifted it up, wondering what those hollow eye sockets had seen, what the skull had heard, without ears to listen, or a brain to comprehend. Oh, that was just great, he was descending into poetics. He pulled his thoughts back to practical matters, wondering again if he should take all this to the police. Surely, with enough evidence, he'd be able to convince them? Then John remembered how easily Moriarty had once rigged the jury, and dismissed the entire system. Besides, at best, a jury would lock him away for life. John wanted Moriarty dead. That seemed to be enough, but then John remembered that death _hadn't_ been enough. Death would never be enough.

John wanted to see Moriarty's pride broken. He wanted to see him screaming like the men he'd performed surgery on, when they didn't have time to let the painkillers kick in. Or begging like the men in the interrogation rooms he'd briefly had to doctor in. He momentarily indulged in a fantasy of Moriarty being in one of those rooms, then sighed, telling himself not to go there. That was what Moriarty wanted, for him to fall to his level.

Wasn't it? What exactly did Moriarty want from him? _A puzzle,_ he'd said. But what kind of puzzle? John had assumed it was the type that you solve, made of clues and questions that you had to follow to the source. But what about the type that John used to do with Harry, when they were younger? An image, broken apart into pieces, that you had to put back together. John didn't like thinking of himself as an experiment, but a puzzle was possibly even worse.

An experiment was adding one thing to another, standing back, and letting them react. But when solving a puzzle, you were constantly pushing and pulling, trying to get the pieces to go where they should, trying to figure out _why_ they went there. John stood up, and put the skull on the table beside the couch. It was doing him no good, thinking like this.

He went into his bedroom, undressed, and collapsed into bed. He'd worry about everything tomorrow. Right now, all he wanted to do was sleep.

* * *

John woke up, gasping into the darkness. The waking was familiar by now, hand flying for his gun, panic and heartbeat slowing, receding, being pushed down and locked up. After Afghanistan, nightmares had been normal. He was used to them. In the Baker street flat, they had become more infrequent. Getting back to sleep had been easier when he'd been able to hear Sherlock downstairs, the plinking of violin strings, or the clink and clatter of experiments at 3am.

After Sherlock's death, the nightmares had come back with a vengeance, changing their tune. Now it was usually watching Sherlock fall, listening to him tell John that he'd never been real, that he'd never really liked John at all, or reminding him over and over again that he could have been quicker, that he could have saved him if he'd only been a bit smarter.

Tonight, however, the dream had been an old one, from his time at Baker street. It was the one from the pool, with the bomb vest heavy around him, and the weight of Sherlock's eyes, and the little red sniper dot that he knew was on his chest. In the dream, Moriarty won, and Sherlock died first, dropping to the ground as John watched. Then, usually, Moriarty turned to John and killed him, forcing him to wake up. But this time he had just laughed, patted John on the head, and walked out, leaving John to stare at Sherlock's body on the tiles of the pool deck, puddles of blood slowly dripping into the water, tinting it pink.

John closed his eyes, his breathing loud in the silence, trying to banish the image. He knew why this dream was worse; because it was too close to the truth. He and Moriarty still alive, dancing around each other, and Sherlock dead, blood pooling around his head. John had seen it. He remembered.

How could you assure yourself that it was just a dream, when you'd _seen_ it, the dark blood, and the curls limp with it, the stains on the coat, the body twisted like a discarded doll, John had seen it all, it was real, so how could he tell himself that it was just a dream?

He was craving the feel of a gun in his hand, but Moriarty had taken it, and John doubted he'd give it back. He wanted to feel the recoil, hear the sharp crack as the bullet lodged in Moriarty's skull, or at least into a brick wall. Or he wanted a needle in his hand and a wound under his fingers, the red blood on white medical gloves, edges of skin drawn together with black thread, saving another life, cut closing like a speechless mouth.

He buried his face in his hands, cursing himself, cursing Sherlock, cursing Jim Moriarty, and everyone else who had stumbled into his life and changed it somehow, because it all led up to this, a man curled in his bed, craving blood and violence and chaos. _Sick, I'm sick,_ John thought, and realized there were tears on his face. They'd probably been there since he woke up.

But more were sliding down his cheeks, and he was trying to stop them, because his throat hurt, and his breath was hitching, and he was so fucking helpless, and the tears kept coming. They were in his mouth, and he could taste the salt, missing the metallic tang of blood, but still a reminder of it, a reminder of the memories, screaming, and John wasn't even sure where he was anymore, some part of his mind realized he was hyperventilating, but it didn't really matter because everything hurt, and the tears wouldn't stop…

There were gunshots outside. John looked up, his eyes wide, already adjusted to the darkness, focusing on the faint outline of the window. His breathing became more even, still gasping, but deeper and no longer erratic. He took advantage of the clarity, and focused on the breathing patterns his therapist had taught him. He sank into the space between the breaths, clearing his mind.

What had he even been panicking over? It wasn't as if his danger complex was anything new. He worked best under pressure, that was why he went to be an army doctor, where life and death were in the balance every day. And after that, he'd been only too happy to go with Sherlock, even when there was only death to be found, corpses to examine instead of people to save. Sherlock… His mind drifted back to memories, and nightmares, and John desperately searched for something else to distract him.

The gunshots outside, that had distracted him earlier. John focused on that memory, wondering what could have happened. Robbery? Gangs? Jealous lover? One side of John's mouth turned up. It all seemed so mundane. After going head-to-head with a criminal mastermind, everything would probably seem boring. The thought of boredom reminded him of Sherlock.

This time the memories were fonder, tinted with exasperation, but they made John smile. He closed his eyes and lay back down, letting his thoughts drift. They finally slowed down enough to let John slip into sleep, and he stayed there until the morning light shone in his window, waking him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is such a boring chapter.   
> This story was actually originally written as a character exploration, which means there are some chapters that are all in one character's head.   
> Also, I really had to get John thinking a particular way so that I can use it later to make his actions more realistic and believable. 
> 
> I know not everyone enjoys that at all, so there's another chapter waiting for you, which you'll hopefully find more entertaining!!


	6. Merry Meet and Merry part and Merry Meet again

**Chapter 6: Merry meet, merry part, and merry meet again.**

_"Alice had got so much into the way of expecting nothing but out-of-the-way things to happen, that it seemed quite dull and stupid for life to go on in the common way."_

_–Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland._

 

The sun was streaming through the curtains, warming his face. John shuffled away with a moan, reluctant to leave the calm nothingness of sleep. But it was too late; he was already awake. Grudgingly, he opened his eyes and stared up at the blank white of his ceiling (blank, dull, predictable).

John swung his legs over the side of his bed and rose, keeping his weight on one leg. He got dressed slowly, running over the last two days in his head. He'd been knocked out, drugged, taken out to dinner, questioned, and generally unharmed, all by Moriarty, consulting criminal. Who was supposed to be dead.

The entire series of events seemed rather unbelievable. But the memories were there, refusing to go away. The voice in the graveyard, the questions over dinner, the tears in the middle of the night. It had happened; but now what? Was that it? Was that the game? John knew inside himself that Moriarty wasn't finished with him, but there was a part of him hoping (fearing) that he was.

He wandered off into the kitchen, ate a tasteless bowl of cereal, and sat on the couch. Now what? Normally he would be content to let the day slip away, void of feeling or activity, like the blank walls around him (blank, dull, predictable). But the storm of emotions refused to settle, guilt and anger and nerves and hate, all centered around those dark eyes, that singsong voice. And the last question, still tormenting him. _Why did you come here tonight, to meet with the man you hate more than anyone else?_

He needed something to do, something that would require all his focus, and wouldn't let him look away, wouldn't let him remember. He tried to think about what could do that, and suddenly, memories of Sherlock were everywhere. Trying to get him to eat, running through the London alleys, staying up all night trying to solve dubious clues, and impossible puzzles. His eyes locked on John's, Moriarty's voice dancing around them, the bomb vest heavy on John's shoulders. John banished these thoughts entirely.

So, barring insane geniuses, which were exactly what he was trying to forget, what would distract him? Shooting things. Surgery. Running. Sex. Nothing immediately available, aside from sex, but John didn't like one-night stands, as a general rule, and besides, picking someone up took time, unless you had a higher income rate than John.

John pushed himself up, accepting the futility of his thoughts. He could walk, and fill his mind with shop names and license plates, and do his best to focus on the unimportant facts so that he could forget everything else. He headed for the door, grabbing his cane on the way, once again cursing his leg.

* * *

John came back through the door several hours later, shutting it behind him with a slam. He'd spent the day around town, walking, sitting in the park, visiting random stores, doing everything he could to forget about his nightmares, both waking and sleeping. It hadn't worked. Everything reminded him in some way of a case he'd had with Sherlock, and therefore Sherlock's death, and ending at Moriarty. Everything ended with Moriarty, to John's annoyance.

He'd stayed out as long as he could, ignoring the ever-present pain of his leg as it got worse and worse. He didn't want to come back to the (blank, dull, predictable) apartment, as empty and lonely as it was. But the limp had gotten so bad that he couldn't walk, and he'd had to take a rest in a café. He'd been so frustrated with himself that he'd almost lost his temper at the waitress when she brought him the wrong order. The anger was still heavy inside him, demanding some sort of release he could not give it.

He sat down heavily on the couch, and stared up at the ceiling, cursing his leg, his mind, his (blank, dull, predictable) life. He was seriously considering calling Greg, despite his remaining resentment of the man, just to have something to do. As he reached for the phone, he noticed a piece of paper on the table. It was folded in three panels, with nothing written on the outside. John snatched it up and unfolded it, smoothing it out.

Poor Johnny, are you bored? So am I.

I'll be there at 5:30.

Don't bother getting dressed up!

The letter was written in pink ink. John was ready to dismiss this as random but then he remembered their discussion about favorite colours. It was a second message, then, probably a hint about what the evening would hold. Pink; it would be slightly ridiculous, and certainly unconventional, at least by Moriarty's standards.

John set the letter aside, and glanced up at the clock. It was 5:27. He glanced at the piece of paper, then back up at the clock. Waiting. Just waiting. Three minutes left. Two minutes… A knock on the door. John stood and went to answer it, pausing for a moment before opening the door. Jim was standing in the hallway, leaning against one wall.

"John, it's good to see you again. How _are_ you? Aren't you going to invite me inside?" For a moment, John simply stared at the man, and then he took a step backwards and made a gesture with his arm, allowing Jim to come inside.

"I thought you said not to get dressed up," he commented, as he took in Jim's outfit. He had only ever seen Moriarty in two getups; the Westwood suits that were the signature touch of his criminal mastermind personality, and the outfit he had used to play Molly's gay boyfriend. He wasn't quite sure what to make of the new clothing.

Jim was wearing dark jeans with black combat boots, and a T-shirt that was dyed with red, yellow, and orange, swirling in an abstract design reminiscent of fire. His hair, usually slicked back, was gelled into little spikes that made him look younger. Even the way he was standing was different, more relaxed. But his eyes had the familiar maniacal gleam, giving him away as the same man who had killed countless people for the sake of boredom.

"I didn't think you'd have anything that would qualify for 'getting dressed up.'" Jim replied easily. "So I brought you a present. Go get changed!" He tossed a bag at John, who caught it instinctively, and then looked up.

"No," John said, and held his breath, waiting to see how Moriarty would react.

The first response was predictable. Narrowed eyes, a single threatening step forwards, fists clenching. A hint of the Moriarty John knew. And then, the next second, Jim was giggling, the sound making John's stomach twist.

"Oh, Johnny boy, I was wondering when you'd try this. You're forgetting who I am…. And who you have left. Mrs. Hudson? Harry Watson? Greg Lestrade? You think that you're alone, but there are still people that you care about. I can still use them to hurt you."

It was a startling way to look at his friends, as weaknesses that Moriarty wouldn't pause to exploit. John's blue eyes met Jim's dark ones, and he realized that this must be how he saw all relationships; gaps in your defense, dangerous weaknesses. Suddenly, John remembered what Jim had said yesterday evening. _"Dangerous thing, to see the world from my perspective."_ Yes, John could understand that now. How easy it would be to start seeing people like that, to fall into that way of thinking and never be able to get out.

He turned and went into his bedroom, locking the door behind him and beginning to get undressed. He wasn't worried about leaving Moriarty in his apartment. He'd obviously had a key made, to get the notes into the flat. He turned his thoughts to Moriarty's threats as he pulled on the clothes mechanically. His association with Moriarty was putting his loved ones at risk. He had to stop this, now. How? The situation was completely out of his control. Knowing that Moriarty was threatening his family and friends, he'd come running any time he was called. Anything to keep them safe. But even before the threats, he'd come, hadn't he?

He laced up his left boot, and turned to the mirror. The sight that met him made him clench his fists tightly, memories rushing back. His outfit matched Moriarty's, the dark jeans and the army boots. But instead of Jim's fiery short-sleeved T-shirt, his was long-sleeved and coloured with shades of green. It lacked the sharp edges of army camouflage, but the influence was obvious. Moriarty had chosen the outfit to make John look like a solider, and it worked. He closed his eyes, pushing away the memories, and headed back into the living room.

Moriarty had made himself at home on John's couch, and had his feet up on the coffee table. He turned as John came into the room, and smirked. "Nice outfit, it looks good on you." His voice was low, each word carefully emphasized.

"Thank you," John said ironically, and Moriarty's smirk grew wider. "Where are we going?"

"Crazy," the consulting criminal answered nonsensically, and swung himself up from the couch. "Keep up." And he walked out the door. John stood for a second, working through his thoughts, then dashed after him, unfamiliar boots heavy on the hardwood floor. He paused to shut the door, and then took the steps two at a time, trying to catch up to Jim, who was almost at the ground floor.

John reached the front door, where Jim was waiting, and then the realization kicked in. His cane. He'd forgotten it when he'd gotten up to answer the door. He'd just taken the steps two at a time on his bad leg. Blinking, he shifted his weight, and realized that it didn't hurt at all. He met Jim's eyes, and saw the Cheshire smile spread across the madman's face.

"Forgot the psychosomatic limp again? I tend to have that effect on people," Jim said, and opened the door for John. John held his chin up and walked through, savoring the freedom to walk unhindered. "You passed my car."

John turned and stared. Jim was leaning against a neon green sports car, twirling a key around his finger, his teeth bared in a predatory grin. The image burned itself into John's mind, full of paradoxes and bright colours. After a couple more speechless seconds, John opened his mouth and searched for something to say.

"Right…" he said. "Let's go, then." He walked around to the passenger side, and slid in next to Jim, who was already turning the key in the ignition.

"You may want your seat belt on," the criminal mastermind commented. And that was all the warning John got before they rocketed away from the curb in a screech of tires, the acceleration slamming both their heads back, Jim's laughter filling the car. John scrambled for his seat belt and fought the urge to close his eyes. Instead, he watched in horrified amazement as they broke every traffic law invented in the UK. Red lights were ignored, they drove on the wrong side of the road, somehow didn't hit any pedestrians, and swerved through traffic at alarming speeds. It didn't take long before the sound of sirens filled the air, and a cop on a motorcycle pulled up beside John's window.

"Pull over!" He yelled above the cacophony of horns around them. John looked to Jim, who kept his eyes on the road as he passed John a white business card.

"Give this to him," Moriarty instructed. John handed it through the window, and the policeman glanced at it. His eyes widened, and he handed it back to John with a nod. Then he pulled away, disappearing down a side street. John, curious, looked down at the card, and read the black embossed numbers. '0100101001101.' What did it mean? He turned to Moriarty, mouth open to ask, but he was cut off as Jim slammed the brake down, throwing him forwards violently. "We're here!" He sang, and threw the parking brake down.

John rubbed his chest, certain that he would have a bruise from the seatbelt. He took several deep breaths and glanced over at his companion, who was looking extremely smug.

"You're crazy," John said with conviction. Moriarty turned to him with an shocked expression.

" _Really?_ " He gasped, and then laughed manically as he got out. John took another second to recover from his near-death experience, and then followed him. They were parked in a side alley, which was unremarkable. It was dark, dirty, and lined with stone walls. Jim led John over to a door set deep in one of the walls. John shifted uncomfortably as Moriarty knocked out a pattern on the wood. The door opened, and Jim pushed John in ahead of him. Music hit them like a wave, loud and pulsing. The man who had opened the door smiled at them, and handed Moriarty a card.

"Mr. Scott, good to see you again," the doorman said, and gave John a simple nod, which he returned. Jim grabbed his wrist without warning and pulled him into the crowd that took up most of the club. John did his best to keep up, sliding between the dancing bodies and apologizing to the people that Jim simply shoved out of their way. They reached the bar at the side, and sat down beside each other.

"What are we doing here?" John asked, raising his voice above the music. Jim smiled at him and raised a hand, calling the bartender.

"Fighting our mutual boredom," Jim shouted back. "Let's start with some drinks and some questions. We'll see where it goes from there." John didn't feel very happy with this answer, but the bartender came over before he could press farther. "We'll start with two shots of tequila, one gin and tonic, and a sidecar," Moriarty ordered, and handed over his card, which the bartender took one look at, and hurried off to make the drinks.

Jim leaned back, rolling out his neck. John shifted on his stool, slightly uncomfortable. Clubs had never been his scene, and he certainly felt too old to be here now. As though sensing his discomfort, Jim's eyes opened, and he looked at John intently.

"Don't worry, you'll feel better after a few shots," he said. John's eyes widened. _A few shots?_ This was looking to be an interesting evening. He was already feeling completely over his head… And it had only just begun. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all for this week! Hope everyone's enjoying the story, I know I'm personally enjoying rereading it, if that's not too egotistical to admit.


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